Praxis
by Jargonelle
Summary: One shot: ‘Even though everyone knows it happens, no one ever watches.’ Eliwood and Hector spar.


Praxis  
by Jargonelle

Summary: 'Even though everyone knows it happens, no one ever watches.' Eliwood and Hector spar.

Information taken from the Eliwood and Hector support conversations.

Disclaimer: I do not own Fire Emblem.

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Even though everyone knows it happens, no one ever watches.

Lyndis wanted to once, she tried to once. She stayed for Eliwood's formal bow, which he gave for reasons of tradition and professional courtesy, and for Hector's disgusted shake of the head that followed, because he knew there is little honour in war and exposing the back of your head to an opponent is just an invitation for them to hack it off.

She watched Eliwood rise and assume a formal fighting stance: his rapier poised, his body light, perfectly still and calm.

She watched Hector smirk and take a single step forward, his axe held with both hands over his shoulder, constantly shifting position, edgy.

Then something flickered between them, a spark Lyn could not identify.

They moved as one, despite their differences and it was beautiful and terrible to watch. It was nothing like the friendly matches she herself had practised with Eliwood or the clumsy fights she had lost against Hector. It was more personal than that, a ritual, a vow.

She had walked away that day and neither Eliwood or Hector had noticed until everything was over.

Time has passed since then.

Eliwood, no longer so sheltered, still gives his bow, he gives it though because Hector deserves his respect and he knows few other ways to express himself. Hector, his rebellion now streaked with fragile caution, still shakes his head, because he and Eliwood are so close now that no such gestures are needed, or even welcome.

In the seconds of silence that pass between them, Eliwood studies his friend, admiring his strength and his energy and the overwhelming honesty that shines through him. There is no hint of treachery in anything Hector does: his fighting moves are an open book to one who knows how to read them.

Eliwood is afraid. He fears that one day Hector will lose the abilities by which he defines himself, that the illness that has struck Hector's family will strike him down too, will corrupt his body until it no longer serves him faithfully in battle. What Eliwood fears most is that when that day comes, Hector will be too stubborn to realise it.

Hector stares at Eliwood, concentrating on him doggedly. His thoughts fly too quick, too free to register, but he is waiting. He itches to start the battle, but he waits because Eliwood is not ready and Eliwood wishes to fight always as a gentleman. Hector is glad that Eliwood does not know how to fight otherwise, but fears that ultimately it will be his downfall. It is simple and not so simple both.

Eliwood evens his breathing, feeling the air brush over his skin and the solid ground under his feet. He savours, but for a moment, the whistle of the wind, knowing he will soon be so focused on Hector that very little else will matter. He likes feeling safe like that, feeling earthed. He does not know if he could carry on without Hector.

Hector notices the sudden shift in the mood, in the very essence of the charged atmosphere. Eliwood has not yet moved, but it will be soon. Hector can feel it.

The storm breaks.

Eliwood's sword has the advantage. It always does, it always has, it always will. Hector enjoys the challenge though, enjoys having to run the extra mile; he would never fight these matches with a Swordreaver. And Eliwood knows, he understands that he would never win if it were not for Hector's instinct to sacrifice himself.

Hector smashes his axe against the rapier, throwing his whole body into creating its momentum. Eliwood has learnt when to yield though and to save his grip, he relaxes it, allowing Hector to sweep him sideways. He takes a step back to gain perspective and then lunches forwards, aiming for Hector's other side, a move that can only be blocked by an awkward thrust.

Hector smiles. He has seen this technique before. He parries, as Eliwood expects him to, and then presses forward, his greater build and weight forcing Eliwood to retreat. He raises his axe to strike downwards.

Eliwood quickly lifts his sword defensively, a loud crash sounding as metal bounces off metal. Knowing that his advantage has been ripped away by their close proximity, he steps and swipes sideways, aiming at Hector's stomach. Hector, surprisingly nimbly, jumps backwards to avoid it.

Eliwood's sword arm is stretched out away from his body, Hector knocks it with his axe, pressing it at awkward angle, which means Eliwood has to adjust his grip and his stance in order to defend himself. He fumbles.

Hector raises his axe and brings it down lightly to rest on Eliwood's bare head.

A shiver runs though Eliwood at the contact, but he freezes in position and does not move. He trusts Hector not to do anything stupid.

That short bout is the end of their contest. Anyone who had watched would probably have been disappointed.

Sometimes they fight for much longer; sometimes they barely make a move. When Eliwood and Hector are sparring the fight means nothing, the contest means nothing. Yet somehow the spar still means everything to them.

Hector drops his axe to the ground.

Eliwood sheathes his sword and offers Hector a handshake, which Hector immediately dismisses and he instead draws Eliwood into a hug, clapping him on the back. "I believe that makes us even."

Eliwood pulls away slightly, but does not let go, "I believe that you are right, for once," he teases.

"I will be winning after next time."

"I would not be so sure of it, you still tend to over-commit to your wild swings."

"And you still tend to be overdramatic with your slashes." Hector grins, chidingly, because they both know that it is true.

"Hector," Eliwood says, voice breaking slightly with the intensity of his feeling. "Stay safe until then."

Hector says nothing, and instead tightens his grip and Eliwood knows the sentiment is shared. He knows it better than he knows anything.

It has become a superstition, a stupid ritual, one that they both pretend to scorn, that if they do not fight every two months, then their blood oath, and the protection it brings, has been broken and that one or the other of them will die. It is foolish, they both know it, but this is a time of war, which changes everything. The spars continue.

Even though everyone knows they happen, no one ever watches: the army does not need to know how much faith their leaders place in a childhood game that they choose not to abandon.

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The End

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End file.
